D--n the bell,
And d--n the fool who rung it--Well!
From all such plagues I'll quickly be deliver'd.

"I have had a curious letter to-day from a girl in England (I never saw
her) who says she is given over of a decline, but could not go out of the
world without thanking me for the delight which my poesy for several years,
&c. &c. &c. It is signed simply N.N.A., and has not a word of 'cant' or
preachment in it upon _any_ opinions. She merely says that she is dying,
and that as I had contributed so highly to her existing pleasure, she
thought that she might say so, begging me to _burn_ her _letter_--which,
by the way, I can _not_ do, as I look upon such a letter, in such
circumstances, as better than a diploma from Gottingen. I once had a
letter from Drontheim, in _Norway_ (but not from a dying woman) in verse,
on the same score of gratulation. These are the things which make one at
times believe oneself a poet. But if I must believe that ----, and
such fellows, are poets, also, it is better to be out of the corps.

"I am now in the fifth act of 'Foscari,' being the third tragedy in twelve
months, besides _proses_; so you perceive that I am not at all idle. And
are you, too, busy? I doubt that your life at Paris draws too much upon
your time, which is a pity. Can't you divide your day, so as to combine
both? I have had plenty of all sorts of worldly business on my hands last
year--and yet it is not so difficult to give a few hours to the _Muses_.
This sentence is so like ---- that--
"Ever, &c."


FROM "DETACHED THOUGHTS."